Sanctum
by winterfellwinds
Summary: The Targaryens had always considered themselves above the laws of gods and men. So too did the golden twins of Casterly Rock. Less certain were the Starks. Jon, Sansa, Cersei and Jaime all have secrets at Winterfell. A tale of hidden pleasures, shame and the sweet sanctum they find in each other.
1. The North

The trumpets sounded and before Winterfell was fully aware of what was happening, King Robert's interminable convoy began to stream through the castle gates. Steel-clad knights rode bolt upright, silk banners fluttered, and destriers snorted steam into the cold air. The North rarely saw such pomp; rarely too did the Starks.

They stood clustered together, presenting a united front as they always did. Eddard Stark, ever the mannerly lord, had rallied his household around him to greet their formidable guests from Kings Landing, and his household was enthusiastically playing their role. Less eager were the Stark children.

Rickon was whining and fidgeting. Bran stood sullen and silent, resentful that he had been pulled away from his adventures on the walls of the castle. Robb was standing tall and dignified, assuming his solemn role as Robb, heir of Winterfell. Arya was flushed with fury, directed towards her mother and Septa Mordane, who had forced her into a humiliatingly girly gown mere minutes beforehand. Her mood had blackened further when Jon and Fat Tom had roared with laughter at the sight of her, scrubbed pink and trussed up. She frowned fiercely and vowed to herself to restore her dignity as soon as these ridiculous formalities were over.

Sansa glanced sideways down the row of her siblings. She noted the frowns on Bran and Rickon's faces and Arya's obvious disdain for the occasion and rolled her eyes. She wasn't surprised. Only Robb's behavior was fitting for the presence of a king. Beyond Robb stood Jon.

The sixth Stark. He was dressed as finely as Robb was, a deep grey cloak swept over his shoulders and the direwolf sigil stitched on his breast. In this clean morning light, he looked as much a lord as her father did, standing tall and proud, his shoulders back and chin high. The cold air brought out the best in him, flushing his cheeks and catching the blue glint in his eyes. Inside the castle he was still a boy, perhaps, but out here he was a true man of the north.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath. The deep connection she shared with her brother was something she kept close and secret. Thinking about him in the bright sunlight, surrounded by her family, felt wrong. Strange and wrong. She came back to herself as the lengthy formalities dragged and dragged. Her mind wandered over a thousand things. As her father and Robert spoke and spoke and spoke, she picked out faces in the king's convoy. There was beautiful cold queen Cersei, surrounded by her three golden children. There was handsome, strong Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer. There, two feet below him stood the Imp, unimposing as ever. There was stern, dour Tywin, the all-powerful Hand of Aerys II.

The mighty Lannisters of Casterly Rock had not troubled themselves to greet the Starks. Sansa's gaze eventually settled on Jaime and Cersei, the twins of the Rock. Both fair of hair and fair of face. The whispers that sometimes reached Winterfell…the rumours muttered in quiet corners…any family as great as the Lannisters would invite speculation, she knew, but there was something different about Jaime and Cersei. The scandalous suggestions had shocked her and fascinated her in equal measure. She had stored the stories away in her mind, turning the words over and over. Were they vile or sweet? She couldn't bear to settle on either opinion. She often came back to House Targaryen, where brother and sister defied the laws of gods and men and lay together. And always, she came back to herself and Jon.


	2. The First Keep

The morning following the king's arrival was clear and bright, a good summer's day. A hard frost in the night had left the castle pale and gleaming. Here and there, evidence of the previous night's feast remained; discarded wine jugs, clothing that had lost its owner, the odd squire still stumbling around. Winterfell was stirring slowly awake.

The very oldest part of the castle was beginning to come to life too. The First Keep had lain empty for years and years. Ivy crept up the walls, snaked in between every stone, and rich green moss covered every sill. The old stone had borne witness to the lives of dozens of generations of the Starks of Winterfell. Today, though, it was not the Starks' whispers that echoed on the walls.

Cersei and Jaime. The golden twins. They stood face to face, each one a mirror image of each other. Golden hair, blue eyes, strong Lannister noses..sharp white teeth. They were beautiful in a powerful, lofty manner, almost godlike in their contempt for lesser specimens than themselves. They truly were lions; elegant and lethal.

Jaime touched Cersei's cheek.

"Sweet sister," he said, his tone almost mocking, "it has been too long."

Cersei brushed his hand away, disdainful. "Sweet brother, spare me the courtesies. Is this rotting tower really the most pleasant place you could find?"

"Cersei, we're in The North. Be grateful for a roof and four walls. We're lucky not to be in a wooden hut."

She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. "Gods know what Ned Stark will make of Kings Landing. I hope he knows how to use a privy."

"We came all the way to this woeful tower to see each other and all you can speak of is Ned Stark on the privy. Spare me the inner workings of your undoubtedly great mind and come here."

He reached out to touch her face and this time she did not brush him away. He slid a hand up into her pale hair and drew her into his arms. Her familiar scent was enough to drive him, and he backed her into the corner of the dank old room before pulling her down onto a pile of straw.

"Straw?" Cersei demanded, as querulous as she always was. "Are we goats or Lannisters?"

"Shut up, Cersei," he mumbled into her hair."Don't ruin it, not yet."

Jaime wasted no time in finding Cersei's lips. His sister succumbed quickly to the familiar pressure of his mouth on hers. His lips were hot in the icy air of the early morning and their breath rose in clouds around them. Jaime's hands on her waist, her thigh, hers on his neck, the cold drawing them close together. She exulted in the joy of being alone with her twin, the other half of her soul, her own flesh and blood. Oh, she knew what the small folk muttered in their taverns, and she was not deaf to Littlefinger's thinly veiled innuendos. She had even heard the High Septon's zealous condemnation of their relationship, by way of Varys. She did not care. The lioness of Lannister did not lose sleep over the opinions of sheep, not a single wink.

And so she exulted in the joy of being alone with her twin, bathing in his glow and he in hers. Together, they were pure and clean. They were one soul in two bodies. They belonged.

And so they grappled with each other fearlessly, pulling away clothing until nothing separated them except skin. They sank deep into the straw, entwined, a tangle of pale limbs and golden hair twisting and seething. Their skin became slick with sweat. Backs arched and legs quivered. Their breathing quickened, and slowed, and quickened again, and gentle moans rent the air as each one buried themselves inside their twin. Together, Cersei and Jaime became pure again.

After some time, their breathing slowed for good, their cheeks cooled, and they began to shiver in the cold north air. It was inevitable, the return to reality.

Cersei was the first to rise. Still bare, she stretched vigorously, perhaps in a trite effort to shake off the film of fluid that clung to her skin. She walked to the slim stone window set into the wall of the keep and looked out. Even after their uninhibited union in the straw, she maintained her air of regality as regarded the corner of Winterfell that lay below her. The First Keep was some distance from the main castle and the bustling yard. All she could see was the godswood. Cersei was just reflecting on how their sept at Kings Landing was far more sophisticated than an old tangle of trees when something caught her eye.

Sun glinting on two heads of hair, one auburn and one black. Cersei peered more closely and then she realised; they were Ned Stark's children. Sansa, the eldest girl, and the boy? Was his name Robb?

"Jaime," she said softly, "Jaime, come here".

He obliged, as he always did, and stood behind her, his hands on her waist.

"What is it, sister? What am I looking at?"

She pointed, and his eyes followed her finger. He recognised the children faster than Cersei had.

"Sansa Stark," he declared, "and the second son, Jon."

They both watched intently as the pair of Starks leaned into each other and embraced chastely. And then, all of a sudden, their lips met. Cersei's mouth dropped open. They kissed fervently for a moment, and then paused, holding each other. Moments later, they stood and parted ways. Both hurried off, unaware that their privacy had been breached.

Up in the tower, Cersei and Jaime turned to each other.

"Looks like we're not the only ones keeping secrets around here," Jaime said, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Don't you say anything, Jaime," warned Cersei, smirking despite herself. "You'll only draw attention to us if you start stirring up trouble."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Well, at least we're not the only ones at it," he remarked, still grinning. Cersei joined him in his laughter, and together they dragged on their damp clothing and started down the cold stone steps, giggling like children.


	3. The Godswood

The morning following the king's arrival was clear and bright, a good summer's day. A hard frost in the night had left the castle pale and gleaming. Here and there, evidence of the previous night's feast remained; discarded wine jugs, clothing that had lost its owner, the odd squire still stumbling around. Winterfell was stirring slowly awake.

Jon had risen early, as he so often did. He had dressed warmly to ward off the chill in the air, but striding across the yard of the castle as hastily as he could without arousing suspicion had made him uncomfortably sweaty. He tugged at his doublet in a pathetic attempt to cool down and grumbled indistinctly to himself. Perhaps the climate at the Wall would suit him better. He had wondered about taking the black - he always had - and following in his beloved uncle's footsteps, but he knew he could not. He could never leave Winterfell. He loved the castle from its foundations to its turrets.

He loved the frosty mornings and the bitter snowy nights. He loved the feasts, where laughter rang off the stones of the great hall. He loved training in the yard, loved practicing with Robb and Bran and Arya and even Theon. He loved hunting with Ghost. He loved the deep silence of the godswood. It was his home, through and through.

And as he advanced onwards towards the godswood, his mind turned to yet another thing tying him to Winterfell.

Sansa. He knew she would be waiting for him, as she always was. She rose even earlier than he did; she liked to watch the sun rise. And Jon liked to watch her.

He could picture the scene, every minute detail. The godswood would look the same as it had for hundreds of years, the ancient weirwood bearing down on visitors like the god it was. On a cold morning like today, every leaf would be heavy and still with ice. The face in the great weirwood would be weeping tears of red sap, as it always was. On a cold morning like today, the pool would be still and clear, perhaps even iced over. And Sansa would be sitting on the same old log that she always sat on. On a cold morning like today, she would be wrapped up warm, peering out from beneath layers and layers of wool and fur. She never dressed quite warmly enough; she was always shivering. Jon liked seeing her cold; it made him feel as if he had something tangible to offer her. It might only be a cloak, or the warmth of an arm around a shoulder, but he liked it.

On a cold morning like today, the sun would shine through the clear empty sky and glint on her hair, and make it shine more auburn than ever. On a cold morning like today, her cheeks would be flushed, that pale shade of red Jon liked so much. On a cold morning like today, her blue eyes would be pale and bright.

He was nearing the outermost trees of the woods now. He was nervous, he was always inexplicably nervous, even though he pretended he was just hungry. _I never broke my fast,_ he reminded himself. He had made this exact journey a hundred times before, but he never understood why his stomach always lurched. At least he could be safe in the knowledge that as soon as they met, everything would fall into place, as it always did. He was acutely aware of his slick palms, but marched onward nonetheless, like the true man of the north he was. Like the Stark of Winterfell he was.

Jon stepped through the last straggling branches into the clearing. Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, he took in the scene in front of him. It was exactly how he had visualised it. Exactly how it always was. He smiled in satisfaction and made his way over to Sansa, sweet sister Sansa, who was perched on her log, as she always was.

"Jon," she greeted him, teasingly, "you're late".

"You're early," he said, more gruffly than he had intended. "How was the sunrise this morning?"

"Uneventful," said Sansa solemnly. "The sky was too clear for any real colours."

"I'm sorry it wasn't to m'lady's liking," Jon intoned, sounding for all the world like Old Nan when she was being sarcastic.

They laughed together, and Jon squashed down beside her on the log.

"What did you think of the King's arrival yesterday?" he asked.

"They certainly made an entrance anyway. Robert isn't strong and handsome like he's supposed to be."

"He's a fat drunk," Jon agreed.

"But the Lannisters looked exactly like Lannisters," she continued. "Golden and beautiful." She paused, thinking.

"They didn't come over to greet us," Jon said thoughtfully. "It was rude of them."

"They were aloof…they consider themselves above us savages of the north. Except for the Imp... It's not hard to be above him."

They laughed again. When the moment had passed, Jon was pleased to note that Sansa was shivering.

"You're cold," he said matter-of-factly. "Would you like my cloak? I'm still hot from the walk over."

"If you don't mind." Sansa smiled up at him.

Jon swept his cloak over her shoulders. The gesture that was awkwardly reminiscent of the traditional marriage ceremony in the seven kingdoms.

She nodded in thanks.

"Here, you can fit under too. It's big enough for about four Starks."

"I could go and find Arya and Rickon if you like."

"Sounds delightful… Squashed under a cloak with the three most irritating people in Winterfell."

He rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't be making jokes if the two of them pestered you all day. Play with me. Fight me. Feed Shaggy Dog for me."

"You love it though, you love being their favourite," she teased. He grinned despite himself.

"You know me too well."

"You're my favourite too," she said abruptly. "You know that."

"And you're mine," he said, too taken aback to formulate a more complex response. His sister rarely verbalised her emotions; she tended express herself with her facial expressions, her gestures.

"You're my favourite too," he repeated.

"I know," she whispered. She reached over and wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him close. He breathed in her clean, earthy scent and slid his arm around her waist, one hand on her hip. Sansa buried her face in Jon's dark curls. Gods, she loved his curls. He smelt like pine trees and fresh air. He smelled like the north.

Jon reached up and touched her cheek. It was flushed from the cold, that delicate shade of pale red that he so adored. It thrilled him to be so close to her; to have the luxury of feeling her skin on his own. He wished they weren't separated by so many thick layers of winter clothing. He wished he could feel all of her, with all of him. He sighed into her hair, with pleasure, with sadness, with longing.

Sansa's flesh tingled where his breath warmed her. It thrilled her to be so close to him. She ran her hands up and down, along his face, through his hair, across his chest. She knew that all she wanted was to be closer to him than she already was. She lifted her chin and pressed her lips to the nearest patch of bare skin she could find. His neck, then his jaw, and finally his mouth.

He could sense her intentions, knew where she was headed. And when their lips met, she was warm, so warm, in the cold air. Jon kissed her unreservedly. He revelled in the taste of her lips. He was hers.

Sansa kissed him with equal vigor, intoxicated by him. His mouth, his hair, his hands. She was his.

And for a few precious minutes, they were utterly wrapped up in each other. But inevitably, all too soon, it came to an end. The two Starks remained motionless for an instant, their foreheads touching.

"I miss you when we're not here," Jon said softly.

"And I miss you," she murmured in reply, still clutching his neck.

And though it was far too soon, Jon slid his hand out of her hair and stood up.

"We better get back."

"Yes," she agreed, wistful. It was inevitable, the return to reality.

They embraced, this time briefly, and bid each other a hasty goodbye before turning their backs on one another and going their separate ways.


	4. The Library Tower

The day wore on clear and bright, the cold white sunlight slanting sharply down on Winterfell. By noon the casle was teeming with life; the kitchens were hot and steamy, the great hall buzzing with voices, the yard ringing with the song of steel on steel.

High in the library tower, several ladies of the castle were partaking in somewhat more dignified ventures. Septa Mordane had arranged for the visiting queen and princess to join the ladies of the castle in their needlework, that they might enjoy learning some new northern stitches. Surely, she had planned the occasion with the best of intentions; however..

Cersei surveyed the room with displeasure. She noted the dirt under Arya's fingernails, the smudges of mud on her dress and, Gods, even on her cheeks. She sniffed. Clean, she was a comely enough child, but filthy she was no more fit for Myrcella's company than a stableboy.

Despite Arya's disheveled appearance, the two girls were getting along well. Arya was somewhat less sullen than she usually was when given a needle and thread, and Myrcella was plainly delighted to have another girl her own age to speak with. Currently, she was raptly listening to Arya's long-winded, rambling account of some incident involving a needle, a cat and a wolf. _A welcome change from Joff's idea of a funny story,_ Cersei supposed.

Utterly disinterested in her sewing, Cersei's gaze turned to the window. From her high vantage point in the tower, she had an unobstructed view of the yard, where a score of men and boys were twisting and twirling with blunted swords. She spotted Joffrey striding around clutching a half-sized crossbow and shouting commands at the armourer, who seemed to be willfully ignoring him. Tommen was present too, happily clashing wooden swords with one of the younger Stark boys.

Robert was lurching around too, slashing away at his oldest friend Ned Stark. His bellowing laughter could be heard all the way up in the tower. Cersei smiled despite herself. Great drunken oaf that he was, his unsteady pivoting made for an amusing sight.

Cersei's sharp eyes roved over the yard, searching for her twin. He was never one to miss a chance to show off his prowess with a sword, especially in front of a new audience. As she searched for his golden head, her eye was caught by a dark head of curls instead. She almost laughed out loud - it was none other than the very same head that had caught her eye that very morning.

She leaned closer to the window, all thoughts of Jaime forgotten. The boy's opponent was strikingly similar to him in appearance, but with a mop of deep red-brown Tully hair instead of dark Stark hair. The other elder son, she supposed. Robb. Robb and Jon, that was it. They made a formidable pair, both looking every inch the strong young north men that one would expect of House Stark.

As she stared down, transfixed, her needlework abandoned, her mind drifted back to what she and Jaime had seen early that morning in the godswood. Sansa and Jon, brother and sister…

Across the room a door banged. Cersei jerked up, startled. Septa Mordane bustled in importantly, Sansa Stark trailing behing her.

"Good morning, girls, your Grace," announced the Septa brightly,

"Your Grace," echoed Sansa, curtsying obediently.

"Hello, Sansa, it is so charming to truly make your acquaintance," Cersei said sweetly, rising to greet her.

Sansa blushed. "Thank you, my lad-.. Your grace. It is a pleasure."

Cersei smiled at her, baring her teeth. "Please, join me by the window. I fear my needlework is growing tedious and i would welome some company." Sansa complied, as she always did. As a young lady always should.

They made idle chatter for a minute or two. Sansa dutifully trotted out all the mannerisms and remarks her septa had drummed into her, but Cersei tired of her genteel small talk quickly and cut her off.

"My, the winter village does sound charming. How quaint. I will be sure to visit." She paused. "Tell me more of your family. The Starks of Winterfell." She smiled, baring her teeth once again. "Of course, I know your lady mother well, and your lord father is never absent from Robert's great feasts. But what of your brothers and sisters?"

Sansa blinked at her, unsure. "Well, Rickon is only three. A baby really. Bran - Brandon, I mean - is eight, he wants to be a knight, and Arya -"

"Of course, of course, I know the children well, lovely boys. What of your older brothers?"

Sansa smiled insipidly at her as her lips began to form a response of their own accord, but behind the smile and the polite words she was growing suspicious. Why was the queen so eager to hear about Robb and Jon? Jon wasn't even heir.

"…so Robb is the heir to Winterfell. I'm only fifth in line, after him and Jon and Bran -"

Once more, the queen interrupted her. "Ah, how nice. It is so lovely to have brothers to look after you, I have always found.

Sansa stared at her, her mind immediately turning to the rumours she had heard in the quietest corners of the village.

Cersei continued speaking. "I have yet to make the acquaintance of the second Stark son, Jon, though he seems a charming boy." Suddenly she leaned forward. Her eyes glinted as she fixed them firmly on Sansa's. "Are you close?"

Sansa kept staring at her, at a loss for words. She tried to formulate a reply but no sound came out. The silence seemed to last minutes. Eventually, she stuttered "I - I… I am close… with all of my brothers, my lady. Your grace."

Cersei nodded curtly, sitting back in her chair, a satisfied look on her face. "How pleasant," she remarked languidly, picking up her needlework. "How pleasant."

Sansa seized her own needle and began to fiddle with it fervently. She could feel a flush creeping across her face so she kept her head ducked low, hoping the queen would not notice her sudden, acute discomfort. Her breath quickened as her mind whirred, thinking, questioning, wondering. How could the queen know about her and Jon? She couldn't. They were so seldom alone together, she could not have noticed anything amiss at the castle. And the godswood… the godswood was so remote, it was surrounded only by trees and the crumbling old keep. Sansa's distress began to subside as she reassured herself that no-one could know. _We are so careful… _Her cheeks returned to their usual colour and she breathed more easily and she began to stitch steadily away. Soon she was lost in her work, though her misgivings still lingered.

Across the table, Cersei was smirking to herself. _Caught out,_ she thought. _Guilty as sin._ She went back to gazing out at the yard as her stitching lay neglected on her lap. She was pleased to note that Jaime had appeared. She watched him striding about, swinging his sword, moving from opponent to opponent for several minutes. _The cold suits him, _she thought, squinting down at his red cheeks and gleaming hair. He had made short work of his last match and was now squaring up for the next clash. Cersei leaned out the window once again and peered down at the new pairing. _Oh, gods_… Cersei smirked gleefully.

"Sansa, sweetling, you must look at this. My dear brother is sparring with your very own dear brother. Jon, I believe." She only barely concealed her amusement.


End file.
